


Small Favors

by Weirdlet



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: I had delusions of respectability and then I found the kink-memes, Kink Meme, Mpreg, Non-Consensual Body Modification, unethical HYDRA medical nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 05:13:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2138280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weirdlet/pseuds/Weirdlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink-meme fill of a request with just about anything involving Brock Rumlow pregnant- because damn right he would look pretty.  It got dark fast.</p><p>Brock Rumlow is imprisoned in a HYDRA facility, awaiting the inevitable outcome of the experiments done to him- when rescue comes from an entirely unexpected source.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Favors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bofurrific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bofurrific/gifts).



He doesn't beat his head against the wall because that would only bring down the tranqs and the straps, and he wants what little freedom he has. Order, order is something Brock's wanted all his life, something out of chaos to make the pain worth it, but this? This is _not_ what he had been thinking of.

Just enough light not to go completely batshit, a sink, cot and toilet. (No mirror, no glass- God, his hair must be a patchwork mess now.) He obeys when they come for tests, grits his teeth at the injections, looks away when they scoot the scanner across the dome of his swollen belly. Eyes down when they photograph him, watching the swirling burn-patterns spiral in reverse as their serums and their shots turn decades of healing, beyond what even a full human lifetime should produce, into months.

He's got the regeneration package, it seems, but not the extra strength or the various other measures of being a pinnacle of human genetics. It's good enough for them to want to see if they can get it to pass on through gestation, but not enough for him to become the new pet super-soldier.

Not like it would have been better for him if it had.

Pain, he could have dealt with. They could have just left him there to die in the hospital, that would have been punishment enough- but apparently when you fuck up as big as Brock has, you get turned over to the _special_ science division. Disappeared out of the burn unit by an organization fast slithering underground, thrown to the creepy techs, and now?

He's knocked up like a bitch at a puppy-mill, and in just about as big a cage.

Brock stretches, pops the _crack_ s in his back, and cradles his abdomen, over-stretched facility-issued t-shirt wrinkling under his fingertips. He feels- fragile, this way, like if he moves wrong he could spill this tiny, kicking burden that takes up so much room inside of him. The nausea and the horror have burnt themselves out months ago, and now he's just left trying to figure out if maybe he'll see the sun before he dies. And he's almost certain he will- he may have made it this far, but everyone else who's gone under the needles has screamed and twisted and ended up on the autopsy tables. And that’s even before the surgeries, the scars that left him this way- who knows what else they might have scrambled in there.

Footsteps outside. It's feeding time, if the hollow in his stomach is anything to go by (and one thing he does not fault his keepers on- they want a baby, they feed its mama). They're in a hurry, and he's just pathetic enough after all these months to push himself upwards with a hand at his back, wanting the brief sight of _out_ through the bars, the fleeting satisfaction of food, however flavorless and nutritional.

More footsteps ( _two, no,_ three-) and then a sound like a wet sack of cement hitting the ground. The floor shivers under him, and a muffled _BOOM_ in the distance barely covers the shots just outside his door- and then the gurgling scream as someone gets a knife somewhere they don't like it.

_Oh fuck._

There is almost no possible outcome where this is good for him- anyone who could find and break into a secret HYDRA base is either going to want him dead for his participation in the coup, or going to want to salvage the science from whatever experiments they can find, and that includes _his_ knocked-up ass.

There's nothing in this room, nothing but him and a bolted down cot that screams like rusted hinges as it yields to his panic-driven pulling, even prison-wasted as he is, because the door's being pounded in and the next explosion is a whole, lot, closer-

_WHAM_

He's got the cot wrenched free and in front of him, blinking at the too-strong light from the corridor- and the black-clad figure stepping through the dust-

 _Oh._ FUCK.

The gun leads the way, but the arms holding it- one's clad in leather and Kevlar, and the other-

The cot almost falls from his trembling, bloodied fingers, because he'll be dead before the Winter Soldier even knocks it away. And he throws it in his face anyway because the baby _twists_ inside of him and he's got, _got_ to get out-

Brock's thrown back trying to avoid the backhanded cross-frame and cloth, catching himself the best he can and fetching up against the cinderblock wall. He's on his knees, scraped and bleeding with one arm around his stomach, waiting for a hail of bullets that never comes. It's a long, terrifying moment before he dares to look up.

The Soldier's looking down at him, with those same dead eyes he's had in all the time Brock knew him. They sweep the room, the broken bed, the back wall, _him_. There's no getting past him to the doorway.

He's going to die, right here, right now, and the kid with him.

Brock is panting, and he rubs the blood from under his nose as he leans back against the far wall. A tiny foot catches him in a very bruised rib, and he winces.

"Well come on. Gonna play with your food, or get the job done?"

The Soldier tilts his head slightly, and cradles the gun in his metal arm. He seems to listen for something, then drops to one knee and braces as-

_**BOOM** _

The _walls_ shake this time, and Brock looks up coughing plaster dust, eyes watering-

That metal arm is extended his way, hand open. There’s no knife. The gun is held in his other hand. It’s pointed at the ceiling.

“Twenty seconds,” he says, and that’s all.

Brock scrambles clumsily to his feet, gets grabbed and pulled upright. His bare feet slap on the concrete as he follows the Soldier, one arm slung under to support his stomach while he runs. The only other- the only HYDRA agents he sees on the way out are corpses.

They come out into evergreens and fog and chill that goes deep into the bone. The last, rattling BOOM nearly knocks them both off their feet, but the Soldier braces him, and Brock just follows. It feels like hours before they stop, and he drops to the ground, trembling.

His feet are cut up, his breathing is ragged and there’s a painful, worrying twist in his bulbous abdomen. The Soldier’s on his feet, casing the perimeter of the tiny clearing they’re in, and pulls out a device- a radio, it looks like- and passes behind a tree to use it. When he comes back, he stands over Rumlow, weapon held out of his reach but at the ready in case anyone or anything else shows up.

 _“Why-“_ Brock croaks, and shivers at the look that comes back down at him.

The Soldier steps back, cradles his rifle in one arm, and lifts the bottom edge of his reinforced jacket with the other.

Scars a lot like his, only much older and more faded. Near invisible, if you don’t know what to look for.

“Extraction in the morning. If you want to die screaming in a ditch, be gone by then.” And he drops his armor back down again, grabs a pack out of a well-hidden hole under a shrub. In all the time Brock has worked with him, he’s never seen the Soldier eat on a mission. It’s not much, dry jerky and water, but-

He hands over half of it without a word, watches Brock nurse the water and worry at the meat without comment.

…………

Extraction comes. By the time it does, he’s in no shape to appreciate it. He waves through the brief reading of what very few rights he has (almost none), and how long he’s likely to be detained (forever), and goes straight to falling unconscious in a very embarrassing way.

The next time Brock sees the Soldier, he’s flat on his back and coming up out of the good drugs. His incision aches, but he knows that in a day or two, it’ll be like he’s at the six-week mark.

Across the window pane, the Soldier stares back at him. It takes him a Herculean effort, but Brock raises his head and shrugs, like he’s asking why he’s there. The Soldier blinks, once, and presses the button that lets his voice filter into the room.

“It’s a boy,” he says, and Rumlow nods slowly. Then he leans back into the sheets, and lets his strings go slack.

The Soldier pauses a moment, turns, and walks away.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, all, slowly collecting my various kink-meme fills here. You may notice a theme. This one one was writing with two fundamental ideas in mind driving the late-night typing. One, that sometimes the only people who know what it's like in Hell are those who were right there along with you. And two- "It's not about you- it's about what I would have wanted someone else to do for me."
> 
> That said- in an alternate universe of the Sanctuary (http://archiveofourown.org/works/1859922/chapters/4002414) fill-fic, that baby is almost certainly taken in by Bucky and raised as a brother to his own daughter Sarah.
> 
> Original prompt here- http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/19023.html?thread=45306703#t45306703
> 
> Enjoy!


End file.
